Specificity
by ejectingthecore
Summary: A yeoman dreams about Spock's body in great detail. M.
1. Hands

_I do not own anything Star Trek._

_I just like Spock smut._

_Enjoy!_

*********************************************

He sits in the captain's chair, hands dangling. His fingers are long and soft, the perfect hard nails shining and pale with an inner green light. As I approach him with a clipboard his hands move up to take it. I watch his right-hand fingers close around the pen, his left hand cradling the metal box. I will touch the box in that same spot when he returns it to me.

I have never appreciated and catalogued a person's hands like I do his.

They are linear, expanding only slightly from his gentle wrists and soon branching into fingers for the ages, straight and rawboned. His hands show the lines of battle and work. They are tough, resilient, sinewy. They are uncommonly strong. The embodiment of fights he has fought hard, weapons he has held and trained, metal he has torn apart, escapes past and possibility of salvation to come.

They are uncommonly sensitive. A window into his mind, a contact point for joining.

His hands waste no energy. When not in use, they are at languid rest. As he plays chess, one hand moves the pieces while the other hangs nonchalantly off the table's edge. He often crosses his arms, a form of smirking, or repose. When he does this, his hands grip his opposite arms, revealing understated muscles, making small creases in his sleeves. Sitting at his station, when little is happening and the crew is idle, his hands rest quietly on his sumptuous thighs. Sometimes one falls innocently to hang between his legs, pearl-white against the black of his firm limbs in those mouthwatering pants.

There, just centimeters from me, is the hand he must use to touch himself. In my mind he is gloriously hard, and I picture that hand wrapped around his thickness. He uses his right hand to gently squeeze himself and begin to pump, some of his fingers splayed, his left hand cupping underneath.

His fingers are impossibly lengthy. They could go deep.

I imagine his lanky hands holding my long hair, grabbing it in bunches. His hands are warm as they brush along my throat. I can virtually feel them stroking the length of my body, stopping to squeeze my nipples, gripping my waist. I imagine one or more of those slender, strong fingers entering me, pushing up to his last, indecently rock-hard knuckle. I can feel clearly in my mind what it would be like to ride those fingers.

With these thoughts corrupting my mind, I sway on my feet waiting for him. His fingers are graceful around the pen. His left hand holds the clipboard without gripping, applying no unnecessary strength. When he's done signing, he hands it back to me. I rub it gently with my thumbs as I walk away.

**********************

...


	2. Boots

_Thanks to an unknown fan who made a pic that said she'd hit Spock with the force of a thousand exploding suns. I played a game to work in that great phrase._

**************************************

How can he wear those boots so indifferently?

They are magnets, the way they hint at strength strapped in and contained. The way they make him stand, casually rugged. I have seen him wait in that stance to beam away, his legs black in his uniform pants, their hems high enough to leave nothing about those boots to the imagination. With his head tilted down as he stands and waits, he seems to be almost considering them himself. They are heavy, masculine. Their density makes him walk like a force of nature. When he moves he wields their heaviness with grace. At rest, they become solid.

They are the wellspring of fantasy.

When I deliver reports, I slur my step imperceptibly, rub a ball of one foot into the carpet near him. Anything to share an indirect touch. I imagine our boots squeaking against one another as we lie together.

His boots have stirred alien sands, savagely kicked away danger, walked right here where I'm walking on this matted bridge carpet. They are filthy with adventure. No matter. If he wanted me to, I would lick them. Slowly from the toes up the calves, looking up at him with hungry eyes while my tongue marked a wet path. If he asked me to, I would do anything to get close to those calves. What I want is to run a finger inside the place where his boot meets his skin. I dream that he sighs and sinks, defenseless, into the command chair. That he closes his eyes, reveling in the swirl of finger along boot edge.

Starting there, I would bite. I dream of playfully and lasciviously working on him with my teeth. I'd grind a comprehensive trail up his long inner leg, leaving saliva on the seams and fabric. When I reached the top of those inseams, I'd gently press his cock with my teeth and he would groan. A tender bite, but I would do it again, harder, again, harder, until my teeth were digging into his pants and he'd respond like a beast, standing, lifting me, throwing me into the chair. Towering, he would yank down his pants and push into my mouth. I would swoon, die.

Never mind that in this unlikely fantasy there is no one else on the bridge. His pants would fall down his thighs, pooling around his boots. I would grab the backs of those thighs in handfuls. I'd lean forward so he could push into me, and I would open my mouth for him and take him until my lips tingled, a sensation of tiny stars. He would come with the force of a thousand exploding suns.

I'd watch his boots walk away.

I drag myself back to reality, and he's taken over from the captain, is now sitting in the big chair waiting for me to deliver whatever paperwork I have. I realize he has seen me staring, perhaps salivating. He plants his boots closer to his chair, so his knees bend higher and his thighs open. He raises one eyebrow. I back away, blushing.

He must polish his boots at night. He must use his luminous hands to rub them, over and over in thorough circles. I want to be that cloth, caught between his long fingers and dark, soft leather.

**************************************

...


	3. Hips

_I own nothing Star Trek._

_Just love Spock lust._

************************************

His walk is both sinister and serene.

Slightly stooped, his head leading directly to his goal, not one uncertain step. He sometimes holds his lanky arms relaxed at his sides, sometimes crosses them and virtually swaggers. His steps are authoritative, yet full of fluid movement. Walking behind him I admire his waist, back, sharp shoulder blades. More than anything, his hips.

His hips are slender and move sinuously, dangerously inviting. I picture him swooping down onto one knee, his hips canting up and back. I picture him turning the chair over to the captain. He twists those hips and seemingly swims to his science station. He leans over his screen, his hips a hinge, and I imagine pressing into him from behind and circling him with my arms, laying my head on his back with abandon.

On away missions he carries his phaser atop those hips. It's on his belt, the weapon pushing up gently, snagging his shirt and making it rumple. It's stunning—that kinetic power and death pushing so tenderly against him.

I want to grip his hips tightly as he pounds me.

Sometimes he relaxes against the rail that circles the bridge, bending one leg to sit back. His opposite hip dips low, a salient angle. Thoughts of hips inevitably lead to thighs. His are slim, but unexpectedly meaty as he leans against that rail. Shadows on his black pants accentuate every nuance of leg and thigh. I want to kneel in front of him in adoration. Those thighs must brush each other as he walks, gaze cast down, intense.

Whenever I make an especially fortunate visit to the bridge, he is lying down to repair something under a console and he's laid against the floor, one knee bent, thighs exposed and pants straining to contain them. I dream of crawling between them.

I would go to him on all fours, climbing over him until my face hovered above his. Does he know he pouts? I've wanted to lever my tongue between those pouting lips. In my daydream he would give them to me. I'd drop to meet him with a long kiss, finding his tongue rough and alien. I'd grind my hips down as his wicked, languid ones pushed up. He'd reach down to undo his pants, shoving my skirt up. He'd thrust up into me and at this first yearned-for penetration I would cry out and gush his name. He'd roll me over with his heat and hardness never leaving me, and I would realize he is heavy. I imagine he'd have an unexpectedly solid, alarming weight and I'd be unable to fully breathe. He would look into my eyes for an agonizing, drawn out moment. Finally he'd begin to push into me and pull nearly all the way out, slowly, repetitively.

I imagine his hips burn like a brand into my body.

In reality, I simply watch him walk in front of me down a quiet corridor. His stride draws me like a tractor beam. I should hold back but instead get so close he can feel my presence. He stiffens and straightens, turns abruptly, and I nearly run into him. He raises an eyebrow. "Yeoman," he gestures for me to pass, and I find myself walking in front of him. I feel the shortness of my skirt acutely, feel the backs of my legs catch fire. As I wonder how my own hips look, I nearly stumble. A river of desire rushes through me from my legs up, culminating in a cold blush that saturates my face. When I reach the lift I step in, turn around, and find him walking toward me with his head nearly downcast, arms folded. He sends just his eyes and eyebrows upward to glance at me, a dark, disarming look. He gets into the lift. I freeze.

He closes his eyes as we ride.

***********************************************

…


	4. Voice

_More smut involving a character I do not own._

***********************************************

His voice is like gravel from the surface of a lush planet.

He rumbles with barely concealed passion. The promise of growls and murmurs in the dark. Though he talks about facts and speculations, his voice drips sex.

He says very little to me. "Yeoman" being nearly the extent of it. I crave evocative phrases soft and low in my ears, husking against my chest, against the back of my neck. Want him to whisper so brutally velvet, anything as long as only I can hear it. I yearn to feel the vibration his voice would set up in my bones.

His voice comes from his delicious lips, more full than seem decent for a man so slim and angular. Heart-shaped, sullen lips. Nearly, but not really, curling into smiles. They are satin pink. I want to pry them open with a finger, drag my finger over his tongue and pull out again, his silken lips sucking as I withdraw. He would grab my hand, pull it away, then bend to press his lips to the back of it, a hot point of decorous contact.

When no one is looking, he must lick those lips.

Those lips, that tongue, would give liquid pleasure. I imagine him kissing between my thighs, kissing my hidden lips, his tongue sliding inside me, then pulling out to trace lazy and infuriating circles. He'd watch me struggle as he took his mouth away and brought it up to my ear, my throat, my collarbone. As my hips hopelessly sought him, he'd almost, nearly, wickedly grin. His tongue would mark a wet trail down the center of my chest. His lips would open against the skin where my hips give way to pelvis. His lava mouth would finally, decisively dive into me again. I would writhe.

I imagine I sneak my glances at his mouth. In reality I must be transparent and gaping.

Today his real, solid self is there when the lift doors open. His arms folded, he leans against the wall and smirks. He is different. His eyes, usually smoldering, now virtually sear into me. As he stands to his full height he says "Yeoman," and though the word is my rank, his tone makes it sound like a lascivious invitation. He positively caresses the word. I cannot even stammer. I swallow and look up at him, so intoxicatingly tall above me. I turn away to break from my trance.

He silently stands just centimeters from my back. My insides drop. He does not make contact, his hands now clasped at his back. He bends so his pink and delectable lips are very near, but never touching, the nape of my neck. The gravel of his voice spills into my ear.

He purrs, grinds out two words.

"I see."

The doors open and I stumble onto the bridge.

***********************************************

...


	5. Alien

*******************************************

In and out of the bridge with reports and requisitions, I have too many opportunities to notice how the Captain's eyes themselves seem to swagger. His vapid and demeaning comments, stares, and winks make my blood boil. The sickening sight of Barrows rubbing his back makes me yearn even harder for a creature who is entirely unlike him.

That creature is alien. To many, he's exotic--a superficial and appalling way to consider who and what he is. Believing what is different about him is encompassed by eyebrows alone, that it ends at the points of his ears.

Those eyebrows work on me with certainty. He must know how inviting they are, promising something significantly more than curiosity. Experimentation, playfulness. When both come together, ferocity. His eyes look up from under them and he prowls. Those ears have discerned voices of pain and love in the vacuum, the screams and sobs of dying men, taunts, promises. I wonder if they have heard dark, intimate sexual innuendo, lovers' epithets. Fuck me. Yes.

We are going down. I find us on the lift a little too often for my productivity.

It's easy to say he's unemotional. In fact he lives a life where baring, and even transplanting, one's soul is the norm. People call him a cold computer, but Vulcans can literally touch emotions. Connection so complete no Human could dream of it. His strict gaze rides on top of a tumultuous ocean. And in that ocean there is lust. People say he's rigid and asexual. He weeps sex with every utterance and glance.

His body is savage. He is surrounded by creatures so weak he must restrain himself when simply walking into a room. He carries his body slightly stooped, reins his full height in to meet ours perhaps in an act of caution. He seems to slyly smile at all that is Human. At times it becomes a sneer, as though he's considering the real possibility of crushing us as bugs.

Such physical strength, coupled with vivid emotions held so close to the surface, must make him wild in the heat of passion. Ripping, biting, throwing, dominating, claiming. I imagine him slamming me to the deck, destroying my clothes, crashing into me, elegantly, hard. Throwing me over a console. He's so tall, he must spread his strong legs far apart to meet my hips with his insatiable hardness.

I don't make the mistake of thinking of him as a rutting animal. But neither is he Human. I can't expect him to be simply a dominant lover. Where my fantasies are electrifying, I find that what to really expect is something I can't know.

As we ride, I glance at those ears and consider how they might feel under my tongue. I want to press his eyebrows with both my thumbs and brush and spread them.

He acknowledges me with a nod and we coexist for no more than two seconds when his white, strong hand reaches to stop the lift. I'm thinking about the vicious strength in those hands, and when I see one snap out I inhale sharply with a pang of fear.

Like last time we were here, he stands behind my back with the narrowest space between us. A deep inhale would bring us to touch. He reaches around me. Pulls my hand up to my shoulder and holds it there with sultry fingers. Fingers that could snap mine without a shred of effort. He exhales words into the nape of my neck. "I have a position of authority to consider." I feel more heated air as it leaves his body. "A duty to this ship." The words are the plain truth, but his voice is growled sex. His breath travels over my shoulder and his deep papery voice finds me again. "I cannot indulge in activities with members of the crew." The word _activities_ has never before been such a sensual overture.

He deliberately and gently presses his lips to the crook of my neck and I very nearly drop to my knees. His solemn, pink lips that I have fantasized about licking and teasing. They are bearing down on my skin. He pulls away to continue "…no matter how pleasurable they may be." The word _pleasurable_ is a dark susurration. His soft, wide lips belie commands uttered, speculations, corrections, warnings to the evil. The point where he placed those lips--never opening or moving them, simply pressing them there--radiates.

I sway back into him and he catches me with the considerable length of his body. His slim hips press up against my falling back. It makes me instantly soft and wet between my thighs. I could climax just leaning back into him. I breathe deeply and nearly do.

Immediately, his strong arms push me up and away. He backs to the wall. Restarts the lift.

When I face him he raises a hand, palm out, to ward me off. "They will miss us if we do not return to work." His face is stony again, but with the passion simmering underneath, and I'm more confused than ever by the dichotomy.

The lift doors open and he gestures, "Shall we?"

**********************************

…


	6. Heat

**********************************

We're going to be transported.

I'm to join the landing party on the surface of an unknown, red planet, where I'll help catalog flora. I stand with him and several others in the transporter room. The weight of the last moment we shared in the lift oppresses, dense and crackling. He towers gently over all of us with hands behind his back and shoulders rolled slightly forward. He always stands this way, but right now I imagine it's so he can look down at me. In this close space he's pure and weighty. I want to nuzzle into his stony neck and smell him. I can't think about leaves and fronds.

When we reach the ground I have to, because they've given me work to do. A tricorder. I set out after some readings to catalog, samples to collect. The flora is no less than breathtaking, in shades of red and orange moving from deepest blood and scarlet to palest peach. There _are_ fronds, vermillion ones, leaflike expansions a meter across, stem and foliage in one. Other plants have tiny leaflets, striking orange, with white petaled, fragrant flowers.

The plants are lovely. I follow them. Too far away. And in a moment I realize I can't see anyone, cannot even hear their voices. The slurred commands of the idiot captain, the cool, intelligent responses that come from my Vulcan's mouth. I'm in a grotto, surrounded by molten colored foliage. I turn in all directions and find no way in or out, no inkling as to where I've come and no mark to point a passage back. I open my communicator and call to the landing party. There is no answer. I begin to feel the planet's exceptional heat, the temperature and the colors, completely lacking any cool tones, working together to create a sauna-like, dizzying oppression.

So, here I am.

I hear rustling in the thick leaves. I'm not going to weep, to be undignified in the face of the unknown. I stand wondering. Then I see him emerge from the trees and leaves, sauntering toward me. Smiling. Something is gravely different. He is not a man who fully smiles, ever. I back up, full of questions, tingling fear, desire.

"Communicators are malfunctioning." Fact, explanation, warning all at once. Underlying them all it's a simmering observation. His words give a simple report. His voice snakes out at me and tells me we are alone.

He offers me his hand as if to walk me back to safety, and I take it blithely, forgetting how he would never give his hand that way. With a painful snap he pulls me by my wrist. Pulls me to him and my face is even with his rock solid chest. He looks down at my eyes. After a thousand years of yearning and a love so deep it crushes, he is about to kiss me. My mind stumbles. My body liquefies. His temperature is extremely high, higher than I'd imagined. His arms encircle me, a crucible. Everything whirls together to become hotter than the planet and the flowers and the leaves and his height and lips and eyes and brilliance combined.

His mouth descends to touch mine.

For less than a second, and then he pulls away as if singed. I am aching for this to happen and tears spring fresh and burn my dry eyes. He looks at me, for permission, for inspiration, trying to decide? Suddenly he dips my head back, cradled in one huge hand, and his mouth opens wide and bites into a kiss. And I am swimming in his tongue, not rough like I thought it might be, but soft and wet and tasting of a red grotto.

**********************************

…


	7. Flora

_I don't own anything Star Trek. _

_Just love to fantasize._

******************************************

We sink to our knees.

On a downy bed of red flora. His wide, heart-shaped mouth finds mine, and he is unexpectedly delicate, his lips silken and creamy pink. His kisses press into me, claiming, but not with wild force like I'd imagined. Concentrated. He holds my mouth fixed against his for so long we are breathing within the kiss.

He backs away slightly to lock his intense and laughing eyes on mine, to look at me from below those black eyebrows. I reach to press and trace one with my thumb, and inhale sharply at the realization of what I'm doing. I let my thumb complete the angle. Then, with difficulty, let his face go so I can reach to remove a few pins from my hair. Letting it flow out of its geometric bun. He closes his teeth on a few locks and groans, and something changes, becomes more primitive. He drags up a fistful of flowers, mostly crushed. With a grave expression, he places a few of them in my hair. Quickly, so quickly, he's made me into a lush, wild animal. I snarl into his neck with a fundamental, desirous sound. He snarls similarly into my neck, and we nuzzle like a long, slow kiss without mouths or tongues.

He pulls back to remove his phaser from his belt and I watch his white hand close around it with vulgar strength. He places it so gently on the flower bed beneath us.

I beg him to take me now.

"We will each…" he says, raising an eyebrow "…_take_ one another."

And so I begin. I reach down to undo his pants, then simply leave them undone. I encircle him, follow the curve of his back, push down on his waistband just enough to sink my hands in behind him. His skin is searing hot, his body rounder and more substantial than expected on a man who seems so thin. I grab with both hands and when I squeeze he lets out a sound both sigh and groan. Hearing his wicked, controlled voice break with pleasure knocks me senseless.

He stands, his lean legs unfolding forever in front of me. Undresses deliberately while I observe, struck dumb as my most intimate fantasy plays out. He places his boots aside, takes off his shirt. Finally he is standing wearing only his open pants, the promise of a planet-shattering erection beginning to take form.

He pushes his pants down and off, and stands nude against the fronds and sky. Arms held relaxed, head bent to one side as if to look down at his own slightly open legs. Pure confidence and pleasure in being stripped bare above me. The stance of a god. I remain kneeling, adoring him, my head tipped back as far as it will go to bask in the sight. A ray from this planet's sun hits our grotto and alien flowers begin to open all around us, unfurling into blossoms big as hands. He is luminous against the bursting ruby petals and vermillion vines.

He is hard and thick now, and I gaze on what I've craved so long, burning its elegance and power into my mind. I whimper just from looking at him. I snake my hands behind his thighs, those I've watched so ardently and dreamt of kneading. Their strength is nearly unyielding and I bite them sweetly, but not tentatively. My grip on his ass, my bites, bring me so close to his lustrous hardness. If I sit all the way up on my knees I can exhale on it. He is too tall. He spreads his legs to lower himself into my mouth.

His hand finds my hair and snags there among the petals, pushing gently but insistently on my head while my mouth rides.

******************************************

...


	8. Bed

*********************************

My throat is drowning.

My most intense daydream is happening to my lips and tongue and palate. His hand in my hair, his murmuring, tells me he does not want me to stop. That this is true fills me with joy and satisfaction and something far deeper and primitive in my core. He pushes harder and farther, and I choke deliciously, tears springing to my eyes. I widen my mouth and wish for, grasp for more.

He pulls away, pulls forever out until his wet thickness is in front of me. Then he kneels down to meet me. He is so hard it looks dangerous. He could be damaged by the strain. Or I could be.

It's my turn to torment him as I stand and undress ever so slowly. With each centimeter of cloth that peels off, I see his eyes grow more intense and dark. As it's exposed, each bit of my skin absorbs more of the setting sun and radiates it back as desire and thrill. As soon as I am completely uncovered, he grabs my thighs, slides one hand down to my knee and pushes it aside so I spread my legs just enough. His soft, long tongue reaches into me.

I howl from his slow, measured entry and exit. His restraint, the unhurried pace of his tongue, set up a tingling in my feet, then legs, then thighs. I bend back to push myself farther into his mouth. My hand runs wild over his head, finding one divine ear with my fingers. I grab and hold it like a lifeline as he continues to deliberately stroke me. When I take his ear he begins to hum into me and the vibration drives me to magical climax. A repetitive, ambrosial clamping down inside me over and over, inspiring both sweet relief and new arousal. I feel one hard cheekbone rest on my thigh, and he sighs.

I turn my face, eyes closed, to the low-angled sun. Then return to meet his smoldering eyes. And slowly descend to kneel with him.

As soon as I am even with his mouth, he burrows into my neck, making incoherent sounds and placing random easy bites. Not the bites of an animal. Those of a lover. He mutters, grinds out a word into my skin. It sounds like "pleasing." And smashes his mouth into my neck with new abandon. I feel the bones of his hands, the length of his fingers, as they smooth from my scalp to my shoulder blades, down my back. He grasps my hips and lifts me up, places me on his steel hardness. And lowers me. His strength allows him to take me down achingly slowly, and I revel in each centimeter as he fills me, a thousand dazzling shafts of sunlight in my eyes.

When I've taken him all in, he holds me by the hips, raises me, and slowly lowers me again. Gradually. The glimmerings of a vicious smile on the corners of his wide lips. Amused. Self-satisfied. My first moment of feeling him, really feeling him after starving so long. I start to whine and try to press down on him faster, but he is more than strong. He keeps us moving slowly for a mercilessly long time. The whole time locking onto my eyes from under his swept up brows. His body steaming, his eyes hotter still. They gleam.

A ticklish yearning builds in me. I whine higher and higher and he abruptly pulls me off of him and stops me from climaxing. I plead. He lifts me up and turns me on my back, placing me gently on the cushion of petals. He climbs on top of me and dips his head to bring his satin lips to mine, and I'm filled again with shock and wonder. Here he is, his great weight on top of me. He trails his lips and tongue down my chest, takes one breast in his mouth, very gently applies his teeth. It sends a jolt through me and I arch my chest up. He removes his mouth as I arch. Words snap out of me. "Put your mouth back. Now." He raises an eyebrow and then descends again to sweetly bite me more.

I have always imagined him to be a brutal, feral lover, dominating. He is not. His bites are kisses. He's slow and smoothes me all over.

He enters me again. It feels good. Just good. Intense. Melting. Tight, rocking, entire fullness. Ache rising then falling into pain then back. He pants, each exhalation part air, part groan. It feels good. Pushing in and out faster now, twisting his hips at the last second of each thrust. His hands slide under my back and press it, hard and we are stuck together. It feels so good. I stop articulating dreams in my mind, a crystal quiet moment of sliding and skin and hands and breath and beauty. It feels. It feels. Good. I'm rocked by an orgasm like a river coursing from my feet and blasting through my sex and mind.

Blank.

A distant part of me wishes he would sweat, give liquid evidence of our passion. But my sweat is enough to slick us both. And I find it's even sexier that he glows, emanates heat from all his skin at once, broadcasting pleasure.

Spock.

His slim and lustrous hips are still pounding me, pushing far into me, he whines and the pitch increases and increases. The first time I've heard his rumbling voice make such high and lost a sound. My body is making him make this sound, and that thought makes my blood rise again to my hidden lips, where I'm stretched around him. It is an inhuman sound, and he is not Human and he comes with a yowl and savage shake of his head-a rending. He collapses on me and his weight cuts off my air, but I will not ever make him move and I lie, lightheaded, clear.

*********************************

…


	9. Again

*******************************

My insides continue to surge and clench in an ecstasy that's sadly dissipating.

He rolls partially off of me and I breathe deep, taking in his smell. We lie, his forehead against mine, one of his knees bent across my body. I wonder at being nude with him, his lean hips bearing into my side, his long legs temporarily mine. He lets go of his anxiety, control, effort, analysis and relaxes, at peace. He nearly sleeps, and while his coveted face is so close to me, I trace his bow mouth with a finger and do what I've always wanted to. Slip it into his mouth. He opens his eyes in surprise and bites my finger, fixing it in place, and he smiles around it. Closes his lips, lets go. And I pull it out gently and watch him suck. Never in all our time on the ship have I seen him open his mouth for anything but giving orders, speculating. Never open at all, let alone open for something so vulgar and intimate. It is beautiful.

He lets my finger go and his smile disappears. Instantly serious, his face back in place, he is Spock and I wonder if I ever really saw my finger pulling on his lips. He exhales "Again." I say yes with my eyes, and he grabs my mouth with another kiss. He pushes my shoulder to roll me over on my stomach. I breathe in the sticky, sweet smell of the alien pink grass and flowers. He gently presses my ear to the ground and straddles me from behind. He enters me, then pulls my legs together and starts rhythmically plunging between my closed legs. Tight and teasing.

He pumps, pushing one side of my face over and over into the ground. He places one hand between my shoulder blades and applies a very measured weight, pinning me down while he rides me. It is a gesture that requires complete trust. He could crush me. He will not. Instead he gently confines me and takes me. I buck backward up into him and then let my pelvis fall, repeatedly, tirelessly. He meets me with his thrusts and I can feel every centimeter sliding between my thighs. Feel him get harder, building with each second, minute. I will not resist, but will skim along his hidden ocean of lust. I'll go there with him.

A wave, a churning, silent howl builds in me, traveling fast from my toes to explode where his body meets mine. Gasping. Whining. Grunting. Slamming my face in floral detritus. I stop pushing back into him, but he continues, more and more and more until he bursts into me, crying out in that inhuman, desperate, satisfied grunt and yell.

He falls on me, drained. Lies the length of my back and then removes himself so I can roll over, cleansed. We lie side by side until our panting subsides. Until it's quiet. Still. More quiet, more still. Until the quiet between us passes through languid pleasure and out the other side. Like an opening flower, the exact moment the change happens is impossible to catch. It's over. He whispers, "You know I cannot do this again."

He pulls up onto one elbow and touches my wet face, dragging the tears along with his bony hand.

**********************************

FIN

FIN

FIN


End file.
